


Hard to Learn

by orphan_account



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Alternate Universe - the Xaviers did not adopt Raven, Angst, Antisemitism, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Jewish comfort food!, M/M, Marijuana, Original Character(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shotgunning, Teacher-Student Relationship, erik lehnsherr: international nazi hunter, past Erik/Shaw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-14 13:12:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1267684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>THIS IS PROBABLY NEVER GOING TO GET FINISHED. I'M SORRY.<br/>What if Erik and Charles met eight years earlier? Erik's Nazi hunting brings him to Westchester, New York in 1954, where he gets a position at a prestigious prep school to better hunt down one of the doctors who experimented on him in the camps. In attendance is none other than 15 year old high school senior Charles Xavier...who is secretly a mutant.<br/>----<br/>AKA an excuse for me to write an Erik/Charles teacher-student story with tons of angst and smut and jazz.  Just a warning: it's the 50s and it's New York and these are highly attractive queer boys, so THERE WILL BE BEATNIKS. I'm going to do everything in my power to keep it under control and not too cheesy. My only promise is that it will not turn into a Beat Poet RPF.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Auld Lang Syne

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes on the canon divergence stuff:  
> -the scene with Raven and Charles in the kitchen did happen, but she declined his offer  
> -I think I probably stretched their age difference but the XMFC timeline is fucked up enough in the first place that who really cares? (I do, I still care. get me drunk and listen to me rant about it)
> 
> Unbetaed, so I apologize for any mistakes in here. Especially the non-English stuff, which I did my best with. there's translations at the end of each chapter in my notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: There is some yucky graphic noncon, PTSD stuff with Shaw in the first chapter. Read End notes for details.

New Year’s Eve. Erik Lehnsherr stood outside the large brick Westchester mansion smoking a cigarette, blending in easily with the chauffeurs crowded in the garage, taking pulls out of flasks and playing cards. 11:15. Most of the guests would have arrived by now. He moved to take a walk around the main house.

“Hey mister! Where ya going? No use trying to nick any of their booze this early. Wait til the missus’ passed out. Trust me. I’ve been to loads of these Xavier parties.”

Erik spread a (hopefully convincing) lascivious grin across his face as he turned to face the driver. “I’ve got a much smaller party to attend in the maid’s room out back.”

The man slapped him on the back and wished him a happy new year before lighting his cheap cigar.

Erik moved through the darkness gracefully, silently, blending in with the shadows as he looked through the windows, scanning the faces of the rich and powerful for the one he was looking for. Herr Doktor Geistmann, who’d shot Erik up with every concoction he could throw together to see if it would affect the boy’s powers. Formulas that made his head spin and his skin itch, ones that made his teeth feel sharp and his mind race, some just made him sleep, while others made him scream in terror.

And there he was. Holding a glass of champagne. His face red with the warmth of the room, with alcohol and food and celebration. He laughed merrily, reaching out to kiss the hand of a brown-haired woman in an evening gown, an extravagant fur draped around her pale, bony shoulders. Erik grounded himself in that familiar rage, feeling Schmidt’s coin in his pocket, knowing that soon one more monster would be put down, and he would be one step closer to killing the man who had created whatever it was that Erik had become. 

Geistmann was introducing the woman, the hostess probably, to someone who was blocked from Erik’s view. Erik watched as she and then a teenage boy shook the men’s hands graciously, the boy eyeing his mother with subtle concern. Geistmann and the woman walked forwards, but before Erik began to follow them, he saw the face of the other man. Gott in Himmel.

It was Schmidt.

* * *

 

Charles did not like the way Mr. Schmidt was looking at him. It wasn’t that the man was bad-looking by any stretch, or even that Charles really minded being looked at like a slab of meat, but rather that the man’s mind was **different** , holding a certain confidence that Charles had only ever seen in those of very powerful... _Oh -- he’s like me!_

**< <SCHMIDT.>>**

Charles was suddenly overwhelmed with pain and rage and suffering, the likes of which he had never felt before. This Schmidt had done something unspeakable to someone here, another person like Charles, like Schmidt. And this person’s pain had Charles doubled over, clutching his skull, recoiling from the stranger’s mind, pushing up every shield and block he possibly could.

When Charles opened his eyes again, he was in the powder room with a cool washcloth on his forehead. Alone with Schmidt.

One by one he dropped his mental shields, tentatively reaching out to find the source of that pain. Charles didn’t have to look far. The man _Erik_ , his brain supplied, was just outside, hiding in bushes, looking in through the small window. Charles slowed the onslaught of images and feelings-- _Schmidt, the Nazis, the camps, experiments, metal, tests, Mama, “Wut und Schmerz,” death and loneliness_ \-- this Erik was going to try to kill Schmidt, and he had no idea that the man was a mutant too. Charles couldn’t tell what Schmidt’s mutation was, but he could tell that he was powerful. Powerful enough to survive what ever Erik had in store for him.

* * *

 

The boy looked even younger unconscious. Bile rose in Erik’s throat as he watched Schmidt carry the boy like a rag doll to the washroom. He was about to break through the window when the boy opened his eyes. Shit. Erik hadn’t planned for this, wasn’t prepared for this, but he couldn’t let Schmidt get away now, and he certainly couldn’t let Schmidt go forward with what he was about to do. Erik knew the look in Schmidt’s eyes all too well, and of course he would have found a boy like this: blushing and sputtering awkwardly, with wide blue eyes and a dark red mouth, hair mussed from fainting.

Erik couldn’t hear everything they were saying, but he didn’t have to. The boy was excusing himself, apologizing for fainting, trying to leave. It dawned on Erik that he knew. He was trying to politely evade. With lips like those and eyes so wide, it couldn’t have been the first time the boy had been approached this way. But Schmidt was having none of it. Coaxing the boy to stay, to rest before returning to the party. Those large hands (still manicured, Erik noted) reaching out for the boy’s face, stroking a cheekbone with his thumb, shushing him. The boy’s eyes looking at the ground, at the ceiling, anywhere but at Schmidt, whose own face was moving closer to the boy’s.

“Come now Charles,” Erik was barely containing himself at the sound of Schmidt’s voice. The boy be damned. He could watch or he could run. He could call the police. It wouldn’t matter as long as Schmidt was dead.

But then a voice filled Erik’s mind.

<<Don’t Erik. You won’t win. He’s like us. He’s stronger than you are. Run.>>

And then the boy’s eyes were on Schmidt, looking up at him seductively through heavy lashes. Charles turned his face to to catch the man’s thumb on his lower lip, slowly drawing it into his mouth, eyes still wide and innocent-looking even as he sucked on Schmidt’s thumb obscenely.

<<Erik, go!!>>

The voice in Erik’s mind was urgent, but he couldn’t move. It was too much. All this time...he’d thought he was alone.

<<You’re not alone, Erik.>> It was as though the boy was reaching into Erik’s mind, stroking his thoughts with warm tendrils of psychic comfort. Through the window, Erik watched Charles sink to his knees, still looking up at Schmidt with wide saucer eyes-- a perfect pastiche of innocent shy seductive schoolboy fantasies. Yet Charles’ presence in Erik’s mind was anything but shy and youthful. He was strong and confident, trying to soothe Erik’s rage from a place of authority, of wisdom. So incongruous with the high pitched whine that escaped Charles’ mouth as Schmidt roughly grabbed the boy by the hair, maneuvering his face against the tent in his tuxedo pants. Slapping the boy’s hands away and smiling when Charles put them behind his back, leaning forward to unzip Schmidt’s pants with his teeth.

The distant din of the party erupted into “Auld Lang Syne” as Schmidt sank his cock into the boy’s mouth, tossing his head back in pleasure. The man’s lips moved, his hand still clutching Charles’ hair, guiding the boy’s head up and down. Erik did not want to see this. He did not consider himself a particularly squeamish fellow, and while there were many things in the world that outraged him, that disgusted him, that saddened him, even that frightened him, as much as he hated to admit it, he had seen and been through so much that he didn’t think there was anything that could inspire such a deep, all-consuming, paralyzing terror as he now felt. Erik couldn’t leave, couldn’t close his eyes or turn away from this all too familiar tableau.

Gagging on that bitter salty taste, angry and scared and so ashamed-- ashamed of his failure, ashamed that Schmidt _knew_ , had seen right through him, ashamed of how many times he’d made himself come thinking of a cock in his mouth, but not like this, never like this. The rough wool of Schmidt’s sleeve brushing against his cheek as the man threaded his fingers so tenderly through Erik’s hair, crooning and moaning sick mockeries of encouragement and affection.

_“So nett, Erik. Ach! Ja so süß! Mein kleiner Schwanzlutscher...schöne Erik…gute gute Erik...begabte Erik”_

The tears came unbidden as Erik watched it happen all over again.

* * *

 

“Mmmm, you’ve done this before, haven’t you _liebling_?” 

Charles rolled his eyes internally, but made sure his face stayed as wide-eyed and innocent as he knew Schmidt liked, maintaining eye contact while swallowing around the man’s cock. “You suck your little school chums’ pricks Charles? Trade sloppy kisses in empty classrooms? Ever had one this big before? Ever sucked off a MAN?”

Charles shook his head softly. A lie. Men fixated on his age were often like this, he was coming to realize, although a peek into Schmidt’s mind verified that he saw Charles even younger-looking than his fifteen (almost sixteen) years. Nothing to be done about it but get it over with so that Erik could get away. A quick stretch of Charles’ telepathy affirmed that the man was still just outside the window, staring in, paralyzed with fear and crying softly. Charles didn’t even think about it, just reached out with the best feelings of soothing comfort he could muster. 

<<Calm your mind, Erik. Take your chance and go.>>

Charles felt another pang of guilt at manipulating the man, even if it was to save a life. That pang was quickly interrupted by the shock of Schmidt violently fucking down his throat. Charles gagged, eyes filling with tears. Schmidt squirted some precome onto Charles’ tongue as he pulled back out, clearly aroused by his physical discomfort. _ChokingonitGodyeslittleslutprettylittleboypathetichelplessneedsitlovesitspoiledlittlebratrichboysissyfaggot…_ Charles could do that. He grimaced around Schmidt’s cock as the man thrusted back in, getting another spurt of precome and prompting Schmidt to get rougher. Strong hands clutching his hair, holding Charles’ head still as Schmidt violently fucked his mouth.

Charles managed to block out most of the really awful things Schmidt thought as he shot semen down his throat, and it wasn’t long before he was alone, Schmidt having returned to the festivities and Erik no longer on the Xavier estate. Mother was drunk enough not to notice if he didn’t make another appearance at the party, so Charles took a hot bath and settled into bed.

Charles had a distant nagging feeling that he should feel disgusted, but he didn’t. He had saved a life, and that felt good. It was something he had only done once before, when he found a hungry little blue girl in his kitchen who could change her shape. Charles had fed her and tried to get her to stay, but ended up giving her a rucksack full of bread and cheese and dried meat, as well as an open invitation to come back, when she insisted on leaving. She never did come back. It was the first time Charles knew for certain that he wasn’t the only different one in the world. He had brushed the surfaces of several other _different_ minds, but none as powerful as the little girl until that very night. Schmidt and Erik were strong, and, in spite of everything, it still filled Charles with a sort of manic excitement to have found two more people like himself. What a strange night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed TW: Charles performs oral sex on Shaw as a diversion so Erik can get away. Erik is triggered and flashes back to being sexually abused in the camps. Descriptions of these are graphic.
> 
> Translations:   
> "Wut und Schmerz"=anger and pain  
> “So nett, Erik. Ach! Ja so süß! Mein kleiner Schwanzlutscher...schöne Erik…gute gute Erik...begabte Erik”= (roughly) So nice! Oh! So sweet! My little cocksucker...pretty Erik...good good Erik...talented Erik.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles returns to school and Erik starts his new teaching post.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbetaed as always. sorry in advance for any mistakes in the French.
> 
> this is just a short little baby chapter. chapter three is coming very very soon.
> 
> CW: there's an antisemitic slur in this chapter.

The rest of Charles’ winter holidays passed pleasantly. With the Markos still abroad, the mansion was quiet, his mother drinking less than usual. They even made it out into the city to go to the theatre, Sharon relatively sober in public for the first time in years.

Charles barely even minded having to go back to school, content in the knowledge that it was just a few more months until graduation.

Something was strange about the mood at school, which Charles couldn’t quite discern. There was the usual petulant feet-dragging of hundreds of minds having to be somewhere they didn’t want to be, the violent ups and downs of adolescent hormones, excitement and relief at being reunited with friends, terror and dread among the less popular students, and...curiosity? A new hire. There was a new teacher for German and French, and he was young and good looking. Charles smiled inwardly; he liked the sound of that. The bell rang and he ignored the niggling feeling of familiarity in the back of his mind.

* * *

It took surprisingly little for Erik to secure a position as a language teacher at the local prep school-- the one that Geistmann’s niece just happened to attend. The German classes were very small. The headmaster had explained that it had been optional since the war, that they were probably going to phase it out soon. French was much more popular, Erik noted, watching the large group of seniors file into the room. The girls arrived in packs, giggling to one another and eyeing him with a blush.

The bell rang. “Asseyez-vous s’il-vous plaît,” Erik said loudly above the din of chattering students. “J'espère que vous avez bien passé les vacances. Je m’appelle Monsieur Eisenhardt et je serai votre professeur pour le reste de la durée--”

“Are you a kike,” interrupted a voice from the middle of the room. Several students snickered. Wonderful. Surviving the Nazis so that he could teach seventeen year old rich _American_ anti-Semites.

“En français s’il vous plaît,” Erik said, face steely and cold. These were going to be a long couple of months.

* * *

 

Students filed out of the class quickly when the lunch bell rang, the few hopeful stragglers discouraged by his icy glare. Except for one, who made his way to Erik’s desk calmly and deliberately. He was small for a senior, but something about the way he moved seemed familiar. When Erik looked up at his face, he knew why. Of course the Xavier boy would go to the same school as Geistmann’s niece. Erik did his best to calm his expression.

“Yes, Mister…”

“Xavier. Charles Xavier,” the boy said with a warm smile, reaching out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Monsieur Eisenhardt.”

“Well Mister Xavier, what can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to welcome you and to say,” Charles paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully, “that you know who I am, and I know who you are, and that I promise I won’t make any trouble for you here.”

Erik didn’t know what to say. Charles had given him nothing to confirm or to deny. The boy bit his lip, glancing at the floor before looking back at Erik with some discomfort.

“I only ask that you...return the favor. I-I’m afraid that should you interfere in my life, no matter how noble your intentions might be, it would end very badly. For you, I mean.” Charles looked miserable. At first Erik was confused-- was Charles concerned that he would be exposed as a telepath? The boy must have read his confusion, because he nudged Erik with the memory of Erik’s own abject horror upon their first “meeting.” His fear was of being exposed as a homosexual, or rather, that Erik would attempt to expose him, and Charles would have to do something to stop him. For a split second, Erik could feel Charles’ presence in every part of his mind, from his basic senses to his conscious thoughts to the deep recesses of his memories-- he was choking on Charles. And then, just as quickly, Charles withdrew completely.

The boy looked ashamed, and was blushing nervously, clearly not accustomed to making threats. The display of power was effective nevertheless, the intensity of it an uncanny contrast to the warm, demure boy that stood before him.

“I won’t make any trouble for you Mister Xavier. But you should run along and meet your friends for lunch.”

Charles pointed those big blue eyes right at Erik, quirking his mouth into a sad smile. “You should know better than anyone Monsieur,” he said, “I’ve never had a friend.” 

And with a quick “À bientôt,” he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:  
> “Asseyez-vous s’il-vous plaît” = please sit down  
> “J'espère que vous avez bien passé les vacances. Je m’appelle Monsieur Eisenhardt et je serai votre professeur pour le reste de la durée--” = I hope you had a good vacation. My name is Mister Eisenhardt and I will be your teacher for the rest of the term.  
> “En français s’il vous plaît” = in French, please  
> “À bientôt” = see you soon, goodbye


	3. A Day in the City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik each spend the day finding comfort in New York City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh, warnings: drug use (marijuana) and someone has a memory of a bad sexual experience, there's a verrrry brief allusion to a non consensual sex thing happening.  
> that's it. a lot of angst. finally some sex! yay! and food and feelings. and original characters! I hope you like them. 
> 
> unbetaed, and I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

Charles took a long drag of the hand-rolled cigarette, inhaling deeply and holding the sweet smoke in his chest for a few seconds before exhaling. He handed it to the boy sitting next to him. The boy eyed it suspiciously. “Is this...reefer?” Charles giggled and bit his lip, letting one of the other men explain that it didn’t _actually_ drive you insane or turn you into a junkie. The boy was beautiful: all tanned freckled skin and hard planes of muscle, blushing at his own small-town misconceptions and smiling shyly. Jimmy had just arrived in New York that week, freshly 18 years old, renting a room in Greenwich Village with dreams of being an artist. His sketches were dark portrayals of midwestern life: tall ominous cornstalks, austere farmhouses, faceless families solemn in their Sunday best. A cursory look into his mind gave Charles images of sweaty locker room fumblings and disappointed prom dates, impressions of fear and shame and isolation all flavored with a cautious optimism so common in the freshly arrived homosexual boys Charles met.

“Here,” Charles offered, taking the cigarette from Jimmy and smiling reassuringly, “just swallow the smoke and hold it in as long as you can. Try not to cough.” Instead of handing it back, he took another drag, leaning over and slotting his lips over Jimmy’s, blowing the smoke into the boy’s mouth. Jimmy did his best, coughing and sputtering his first time, but improving as the cigarette was passed around the circle.

Charles liked marijuana. He liked the way it helped turn the ever-present din of everyone else’s mind into something beautiful. Once he spoke at length with a jazz musician who would get high and improvise wild cacophonous music that just sounded like a bunch of ugly noise to the untrained ear. They talked about finding beauty and depth in dissonance, about finding pleasure and complexity in things commonly deemed ugly. The man had been talking about music, but it also applied to Charles’ telepathy. Charles could focus just on the minds immediately around him, enjoying their highs in addition to his own, or he could widen his focus and open the floodgates, letting in symphonies of consciousness, marveling at how massive and beautiful humanity was. So many minds! The other wonderful thing was that, if he spoke abstractly enough, he could share these thoughts with his friends, who merely thought he was being philosophical.

On that particular afternoon, Charles had cast his net only as wide as the apartment building. Two women were making love down the hall, an infant was dreaming on the ground floor, a man was missing his mother in the apartment above them. Sadness and joy and hunger and hope. His train of thought was interrupted by a voice.

“Thirsty…”

Charles sat up and looked around. Everyone had gone, leaving him alone with Jimmy. He remembered someone thinking (or saying? it was hard to tell) “go get ‘im Chuck,” but he hadn’t realized at the time that it had been directed at him. Charles got two glasses of water from the tap in the kitchen. Jimmy’s eyes were red and his pupils were dilated. His cheeks were pink, making his freckles stand out even more. He downed the water in one go, suddenly bashful again when Charles sat down next to him on the sofa.

“So...your accent...are you English,” Jimmy stammered out, looking at the floor and clutching his empty glass. He had at least 2 years, 5 inches and 50 pounds on Charles, but he still trembled when Charles pried the tumbler from his fingers and put it down on the floor. He looked at Charles wide-eyed-- scared and nervous and excited and a little bit ashamed. Then Charles was the one who was surprised when Jimmy leaned in to kiss him. It was a little bit too hard, like he was forcing himself to be brave and do it, but Charles quickly took control, gentling the kiss to something slow and tender and lazy. He could feel Jimmy’s heart beating madly against his chest.

“Do you have somewhere you need to be?”

“Uh...no?”

“Then relax. Let’s take it slow. We have plenty of time.”

Jimmy gave Charles another one of his shy smiles, but this time it was accompanied by darkened eyes under hooded lids. Effortlessly seductive.

They sat that way for a long time, petting each others’ hair and exploring each others’ mouths. Charles let his senses delight in soft lips and hard muscle and light stubble, a cotton undershirt softened by frequent wear, the smell of soap and salt and arousal. He straddled the boy and slipped his tongue into his mouth. Jimmy moaned, sending vibrations into Charles’ mouth as they slid their tongues together. Then strong hands were untucking his shirt from his trousers and clumsily unbuttoning it, greedy and eager to get to the skin underneath. Charles wasn’t wild about his own soft and slender body, but Jimmy didn’t seem to mind. In fact he was running his hands up and down Charles’ back like it was the best thing he’d ever felt. Charles removed Jimmy’s undershirt and started kissing up his neck.

“You’re still in high school, huh?”

“Mhm,” Charles nodded without stopping, flicking his tongue against an earlobe before sucking on Jimmy’s pulse point.

Jimmy touched Charles with reverence and smiled. “You don’t play any sports though. I bet you’re one of those brains who eats lunch in the library over some fat dusty science book.” He frowned. “Do you get picked on much?”

Charles was warmed by the boy’s sincere concern. “No,” he replied honestly, looking up into Jimmy’s eyes.

“That’s good,” Jimmy nodded solemnly, gently grabbing Charles’ waist and admiring the contrast of his big, tan, farm-worked hands on the younger boy’s soft, pale skin. “You just seem so...breakable.”

“Is that so?” Charles quickly unzipped his trousers and grabbed Jimmy’s hands, lowering them under his waistband, guiding them to his ass, before leaning in and kissing him. Jimmy whimpered into his mouth, erection straining against his khakis. His hands grabbed the waistbands of Charles’ trousers and underwear and pulled them down. Charles broke the kiss and stood up to let them both fall to the ground. “You too,” he said.

Charles didn’t need to read Jimmy’s mind to know that the boy was having a hard time not staring at Charles’ cock. It was nice, though, to know that the precise word he was thinking was _mouthwatering_. “Gee whiz Charles,” is what he actually said, eyes wide, staring at Charles breathlessly. Before Charles could get back on the couch, Jimmy was on his knees, pants down, looking up at him, his blush spreading down his neck, over his chest and shoulders, dick hard and wet in his hand. He took Charles into his mouth with practiced ease, hand working the base where he couldn’t take Charles any deeper. Charles threaded his fingers through the boy’s hair, encouraging him gently.

They maintained eye contact for about a minute, after which Jimmy closed his eyes and went somewhere else. Some other person. Some other fantasy. It no longer bothered Charles. Depending on the memory or fantasy, he would sometimes even sit in on it, and this one was lovely. Jimmy with freshly cut hair and another boy. Shorter and stockier, not as nice looking or endearingly freckled as Jimmy, but a good looking all-American small town football star all the same. _Mike_. Mike’s traces were all over Jimmy’s brain, in all his brightest memories, his recent thoughts, both conscious and unconscious. And this fantasy was gorgeous, imbued with love and affection and need. Mike pushing Jimmy up against a wall in the locker room showers, kissing him passionately, the steam rising from the floor. Mike looming over him, strong and loving and protective, feeding his heavy cock into Jimmy’s mouth.

The fantasy was interrupted periodically by memories of the real Mike. Showing off to the girls at school, making fun of Jimmy’s interest in art, Jimmy listening to him necking in the backseat on a double date, murmuring “come on baby” to a girl who kept whispering “no.” Jimmy and Mike hiding in the cornfield on the way home from school, Jimmy’s mouth wrapped around Mike’s cock, trying so hard not to scrape him with his teeth, gagging when Mike thrust into his mouth too deep. Jimmy sucking desperately, mind frantically praying _likemelikemelikemelikemelikemelikemelikemelikemelikemelikemelikemelikeme_.

Charles looked down to see Jimmy sucking him hard and fast, face dirty with tears. Charles pulled away and knelt down, cupping Jimmy’s face and shushing him softly. He reached out mentally, soothing the boy the best he could without being too obvious about it. Jimmy wrapped his arms around Charles tightly and sobbed into his shoulder.

“Shhhhh. It’s okay. Everything is fine, beautiful boy.” Charles spoke softly, stroking his hair and kissing his forehead. Jimmy pulled away to look at Charles, who wiped the tears from his eyes, kissing his cheeks and eyelids and the tip of his nose. “You’re safe now.” He pressed a chaste kiss to Jimmy’s mouth and smiled warmly.

“Oh jeez, I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for, my friend,” Charles said, and he meant it. “We can get dressed and get a coffee if you’d like to stop.”

Jimmy bit his lip and thought about it. “Do you think it’d be okay if we just kissed and touched some more?”

Charles held a hand out to help Jimmy stand up. “I would love that.”

Jimmy kicked the rest of his clothes away, toeing out of his socks and sniffling a little before settling back onto the couch. The radiator in the corner hissed and gurgled, the only sound other than those of shifting weight and soft footsteps, distant yelling and car traffic outside. Charles straddled Jimmy again, resting their foreheads together, enjoying the warm unrivaled sensation of skin on skin where their bodies met. He kissed the boy’s cheekbones and temples, the line of his jaw, down his neck to his collarbone before capturing his lips, running his fingers through Jimmy’s hair in a comforting rhythm.

It wasn’t long before they were both starting to get hard again-- Jimmy humming contentedly into Charles’ mouth, long thick fingers wrapped around his waist. “I want to taste you,” Charles whispered into Jimmy’s ear, feeling the boy shiver from the sensation.

“O-okay.”

Charles knelt between the boy’s knees, looking up at him with his cheekiest smirk, before sinking his mouth down over his cock. He dipped his tongue under Jimmy’s foreskin, swirling it around the head and grabbing the base of his dick. Charles held his own erection with his other hand. Charles was not surprised to learn that this was the first time Jimmy had been in anything other than his own hand, and was overwhelmed by the soft wet heat of Charles’ mouth. Charles looked up and saw the boy’s head tilted back, mouth wide open and gasping, nipples hard in the cool air of the room. Jimmy tasted like life and skin, anxiety and optimism, already starting to leak bitter and salty onto Charles’ tongue.

Charles suckled on the head, teasing his tongue gently at the slit, and kept a steady pace stroking the boy with his hand. Charles licked down the shaft, nosing and kissing and lapping at Jimmy’s balls and the sensitive skin where groan and thigh met. The boy leaned back instinctively, moving his hips forward and spreading his legs further apart with a soft whine. Charles felt hard thigh muscle tensing and relaxing under his mouth’s ministrations, then let some saliva build up in his mouth before carefully depositing it onto Jimmy’s perineum, watching it drip down over the boy’s hole and onto the couch cushion. Charles stroked a fingertip just under Jimmy’s sack, following the smeared spit downwards until the pad of his finger was pressed tentatively against Jimmy’s puckered opening.

“Has anyone ever touched you here, love?”

Jimmy’s “no” was a harsh whisper, verging on a hiss, and Charles could feel the touch centering the boy, relaxing him. Charles sucked Jimmy back down, finger still pressing gently at his tight twitching hole. Abdominal muscles spasming, his eyelids fluttering, Jimmy cried out, prompting Charles to tap into Jimmy’s head, riding his orgasm from its desperate ecstatic build through each crashing pulse of climax to its warm, lazy conclusion. The taste of his come sang on Charles’ tongue, resonating brilliantly with the flavor of his thoughts-- simultaneously musky and fresh, manly and boyish, powerful and vulnerable, bold and tentative, hopeful and terrified-- tangy and sweet and hot and thick and perfect.

Jimmy barely needed the telepathic nudge he was given to fall asleep. Charles dressed, glancing periodically over at the figure asleep on the sofa-- flushed and jelly-limbed, serene and angelic. He felt that sense of accomplishment that only came from looking at a blissful fucked-out lover and thinking “I did that.” The feeling of pride that Charles could could inspire such a raw, genuine, beautiful reaction in another human being, not just with his powers or his intelligence, but with his whole being, was Charles’ favorite feeling in the world.

Maybe it wasn’t intimacy, and it certainly wasn’t love, but it was an approximation of the two, and as close as Charles thought he was likely ever to get to either. He had tried as a child to plant the artificial seeds of love in his mother’s mind, but all her doting and fussing ended up doing was prove that she definitely hadn’t loved her son before. Sharon held him in her arms as as he sobbed hysterically, scrambling to get away from her to hide from the grotesquely unnatural mask of concern she had contorted her face into. Charles finally managed, hiding in his closet until he’d calmed himself down enough to reach back into her head and undo the damage he’d done.

It was enough, would have to be enough, to feel other people’s love, and Charles considered himself very lucky that he could. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind Jimmy’s ear, and kissed the top of his head, an oddly paternal gesture considering their difference in age and size. Charles put on his coat, whispered goodbye and shut the door slowly behind him, hoping that the young man would find someone to love in this new city.

* * *

“You want I should die from embarrassment Rachel? Walking out in the street where our neighbors can see you dressed like that?”

“Ma…”

“It’s a shanda. Why don’t you wear a sweater that fits you? And who is this boy?”

“Ma he’s just a boy…”

Erik couldn’t help that the corners of his mouth twitched upwards as he eavesdropped. The formidable sole employee of the deli-- Esther, as her plastic nametag read-- was able to man the cash register, serve sandwiches, wrap up meat, and interrogate her daughter all at the same time, the scratched up solid gold band on her left hand constantly in motion. It was as though her body and head operated completely independently of one another. Her legs walking her around the room, hands wrapping up meat and giving people their change, while her face emoted, delivering a dramatic monologue to the whole establishment.

“And blue jeans she wears!” Esther lamented, either to heaven or to the bearded man in the fur hat buying a pound of corned beef and a jar of pickles. “I slave away here day in and day out to give you a good life, an education, the prettiest dresses to wear,” she turned to a couple of middle aged women eating kishkas at a small table, “so she can catch herself a nice doctor to marry, buy a nice house in Great Neck or Roslyn Estates, give me some nice grandchildren to enjoy in my old age.” The women nodded earnestly. Esther turned her attention to the customer handing her a five dollar bill. “And she wears blue jeans,” she said simply, as though that was the final nail in the coffin as far as Rachel’s future was concerned. Erik took the final bite of his stuffed cabbage, scraping the plate with his fork to grab stray pieces of meat and bits of sauce. Rachel kissed her mother goodbye and walked out the front door, promising to be back by 9. With a dramatic “vey iz mir,” Esther shifted gears, walking out from behind the counter to bus tables.

It was such a relief to be back in a place where people spoke loudly, expressing emotions with flourish instead of bottling them up inside, tight lipped and quietly seething, the way they seemed to in Ridgefield. There were old men sitting in the corner, arguing in Yiddish about Palestine. It felt good to eat the familiar food his aunt and her friend would cook him when he’d visit them in Berlin, hear the language they spoke late into the night, smoking cigarettes and arguing passionately about politics with exotic friends from Romania and Hungary. (Jakob had merely shaken his head when they’d gotten the news that Erna and Hannah had been arrested by the Gestapo. Erik had been too young to know what a socialist was.)

“Well, what are you smirking at?” Esther had somehow managed to sneak up on him, and stood before Erik with her hands on her hips, staring down with a severe expression, eyebrow cocked suspiciously.

Erik did his best to soften the grin that had so frequently been described to him as “shark-like.”

“You just have a lovely delicatessen, ma’am.”

“Hm!” She sat down across from him, clearly unsatisfied with his answer. “You talk funny. Where are you from?”

Erik was telling the truth before he could stop himself. “Germany, then Poland, then...all around Europe. Now I teach high school in Connecticut.” He took a sip of his coffee. It had long since gotten cold.

Understanding flashed through her eyes as he spoke, but instead of spouting the same old platitudes he’d heard thousands of times, she just said, “you’re drinking cold coffee,” grabbed his cup and walked to pour him a fresh one. “How did you like your holishkes,” she shouted from the kitchen.

“Much better than they make in Ridgefield,” he yelled back with a smile.

She returned with two steaming mugs and a big slice of noodle kugel. “Those WASPs don’t eat properly. Look how thin you are! Handsome boy like you.” Esther sat down and poured some sugar into her coffee, stirring it quickly with a spoon that had seen better days, continuing to shake her head in outrage over Erik’s gastronomical mistreatment by the insidious goyim of the Berkshires.

Erik just muttered a thank you and took a nice drink of his piping hot coffee.

Esther furrowed her brow, looking down at the kugel before pushing it towards Erik. “Ess!” she commanded with a wave of her hand.

Erik smiled sheepishly and took a big bite, closing his eyes and letting his tongue rejoice as the rich sweetness exploded in his mouth. Sour and sweet and cinnamony and silky smooth.

She leaned back and smirked, looking out the window at the darkening street. “Nu?”

“This is one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.” Erik cocked an eyebrow. “But I didn’t see kugel on the menu.”

Esther leaned forward conspiratorially. “I won’t tell if you don’t…”

“Max Eisenhardt.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t, Max Eisenhardt.”

Erik chuckled, drinking some coffee before taking another bite, watching the streetlights turn on outside.

“Are you married, Max Eisenhardt?”

“No.”

Esther’s eyes sparkled in a way that could only mean trouble. She wagged her finger at Erik, “you keep coming back and eating in Brooklyn, and we’ll find you a nice girl.”

Erik wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he just stuffed some more kugel into his mouth. Esther winked and stood up, walking back to the counter to help some new patrons. When he left, she wouldn’t take his money for the food.

Walking to the bus stop, Erik felt warm and full in a way he hadn’t in a long time. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t explain to her that he couldn’t marry a nice girl because he traveled the world killing Nazis, or because he was probably a homosexual. It didn’t matter that he would probably never go back. It had been nice to experience something that felt a little bit like family, if only just for one afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to promise that this was my final sad blowjob. I really want to promise that. but I can't. I will try though to stay away from angsty BJs for a while.
> 
> a quick explanation: sweet noodle kugel is usually made with dairy products, which you can't mix with meat products if you keep kosher. TROUBLEMAKERS!! 
> 
> it's my zayde's yahrzeit today so idk I got really sentimental and Jewy. Erik's dad was decorated with the iron cross in the german army after WWI, and so was my zayde's dad. I'm really interested in Erik's sense of identity at this point in his life with regards to ethnicity and nationality and religion and sexuality, because he isn't at the point yet where he's really thinking about mutant as an identity marker.
> 
> *sigh* my boys. I love them. poor Charles, right!? don't worry. I'll be getting to romantic biz between the two of them soon.
> 
> translations (I'll do my best, but the English words don't often have the same connotations as the Yiddish):  
> "shanda" = scandal, but often used to describe something you just really don't approve of  
> "kishkas" = they're like this thick sausagey thing kind of and you eat it with gravy and it's delicious  
> "vey iz mir" = basically like "woe is me"  
> "holishkes" = boiled cabbage leaves stuffed with minced meat  
> "kugel" = a sweet casserole made with egg noodles and cream cheese or cottage cheese and raisins and cinnamon  
> "Ess!" = Eat! (a command)  
> "Nu?" = So?


End file.
